


Such Wow, Many Normal, Very Oops

by blazingstar29



Series: Whumptober 2020 [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt John Watson, Hurt No Comfort, Mugging, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, War, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27416158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blazingstar29/pseuds/blazingstar29
Summary: Watson was mugged to send a message for Sherlock.It was only a matter of time before this mild mannered veteran snapped.-Watson yells at sherlock for not caring he got hurt.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Whumptober 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946425
Kudos: 30





	Such Wow, Many Normal, Very Oops

**Author's Note:**

> Im on episode three of Sherlock and oh my god how has Watson not snapped yet. Anyway I had to run over here to finish my self designated whumptober prompts and write some angst.

Perhaps Donovan was right, stamp collecting was safer. But Sherlock wasn’t the only one who got bored. 

Being involved with Sherlock (not romantically as everyone likes to think) had made his life dangerous. Well, not as dangerous as it used to be but still dangerous. It was no longer a flag shooting at him, it was a shadow. And in the shadows is where the battle is. 

The hand grabbed his face almost from now where, John’s mind instantly flashed back to Golem and his piercing fingers. The hand pulled him into a backstreet where he was thrown to the ground.

“Just putting it out there, I’m not Sherlock,” John sighed. It really wasn’t the first time it had happened, something Sherlock failed to see as an issue. 

“No, you aren’t the psychopath.”

“Sociopath, high functioning,” John wheezed as a boot collided with his stomach. 

“Shut it!” The man growled. “You aren’t Sherlock Holmes, you are the message.”

Two more boots smashed into John’s back, the second aggravating his old shoulder. His limp may have been psychosomatic but the bullets to his shoulder certainly weren’t. The beating intensified until John was on the verge of unconsciousness. The man who spoke to him rummaged through Watson’s pockets and took anything he could find. 

“This is what you're going to tell your flatmate. Drop the case or he’s going to find himself in a spot of bother. You get me?” He hissed and walked away, his cronies following. All John saw was the blurred legs of four men before his vision closed up.

-

When John woke it was just before dawn. The grey sky welcomes traders to their stalls as markets open up. John groaned, his shoulder was stiff and aching from the cold night on the floor. 

It was a long walk back to 221B Baker Street. His homecoming was as sweet as he imagined.

“Where have you been?” Badgered Sherlock when he saw the state of his flat mate. 

John mumbled on his way to the fridge, “your case, some lunatics made me a messenger. Said you should back off before you find yourself in a spot of bother.”

  
  


“Oh! Good, I knew I was close, that just confirms it!”

John threw the door of his fridge closed.

“You are un-fucking-believable!” He cried and wheeled around to march back in the living room.

“What?” Sherlock was dumbfounded.

John shook so much he had to grasp the back of the arm chair, “fuck you. No wonder Donovan and Lestrade think you're cooky. I have been missing all night after returning from running errands for your antisocial brother. Who by the way can do his own dirty work, and I was mugged. They took my phone, they took my wallet, they kicked my head in.”

“I haven’t been afraid for my life for a long time and I wasn’t afraid last night. I wasn’t afraid when Donovan said that with you, solving the murders wasn’t enough and one day they’d be looking at a body and you put it there. But sometimes I’m afraid of the life I’m living with you. I could go missing for days and you wouldn’t even ask Mrs. Hudson if she’d seen me leave.”

John was panting lightly, “what’s it going to take to realise that people need someone to look out for them. How long is it going to be before I’m dead in a ditch for a week-”

“Someone would have found you before then-”

“Fuck off Sherlock!” John shouted, trembling with anger and exhaustion. “How long will it take you, to realise I need you to be a friend every now and then and, and I get hurt and I’m not perfect like you. And, and…”

John fell into the chair, exhaustion suddenly taking him over. 

Sherlock was very quiet. He always thought best aloud.

“Are you still seeing a psychologist?” He said after a few moments.

“No,” John whispered.

“Good,” said Sherlock. “She was useless. Your blog has improved since you stopped seeing her.”

“Did you ever consider why I stopped seeing her?”

Sherlock was staring intently at John, “unlike many people assume I do mind my own business occasionally.”

“I thought I was getting better. I still get nightmares when you do things like shoot holes in the wall out of boredom. But I was okay, I thought I was okay because I had you and I had a life to live. I work at the clinic, I write a blog, I, I tag along solving crimes with you, watching you solve crimes.”

  
  


“John, you have become what most would call a friend. Your presence comforts people, makes me look sane and a genius not psychopath. It was never my intention to make you feel like you are nothing more than a tag a long flat mate whom I would ignore when you go missing for a week.”

John nodded and gave a thin smile.

“I’ll go get some shopping. It’s a good thing you decided to slam the fridge shut before you could see inside.”

“Why?” John slumped tiredly.

“There's some human eyes in the egg box.”

  
  



End file.
